


At Your Service

by ll_again



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Chefs, F/M, Prompt Fill, kitchens are dangerous places, lots of cursing and smoking because chefs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-23
Updated: 2017-09-23
Packaged: 2018-12-23 18:05:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11995128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ll_again/pseuds/ll_again
Summary: Genius culinary student Sherlock Holmes has an important question for his classmate Molly Hooper. If Anderson can keep from killing her with his general incompetence, that is.





	At Your Service

**Author's Note:**

> mariehooper said: Here’s a fluffy suggestion: Sherlock and Molly as students in a cooking school (inspired by the Japanese manga Kitchen Princess)  
> \--  
> I haven't read Kitchen Princess, but I do watch far too many cooking shows of the angry chef variety. So this is less shoujo fluff and a lot more swearing and a few Gordon Ramsay-esque insults (but not nearly enough; I'm a little sad about that). Sorry.

"Hands off my knives unless you want to lose a finger, Holmes," Molly snapped.

In the corner of her eye, she saw Sherlock snatch his hand away from her knife case. "But Mollieee," he whined, drawing out her name into a coaxing sing-song.

"No," she said, fighting back a smile, trying to sound stern even though she could hear for herself that she was failing. "Where are yours? You had them half an hour ago."

Sherlock tilted his head, indicating the workbench on the far side of the classroom even as he opened his eyes wide in a damn good approximation of a puppy dog face.

"That's twenty feet! Just go get them!" Molly said, gesturing with the spoon she was using to make quenelles. A blob of salmon mousse flew off the spoon, landing wetly next to John at the station in front of her.

"Hey, watch it, Hooper," he said, pausing in his chopping to glance over his shoulder, shrugging off Molly's mouthed 'sorry' when he saw Sherlock standing next to her.

Sherlock was edging towards her knife case again. "Molly, can't I just…"

Molly dipped her spoon into the tub of mousse, whining low in her throat indecisively. She hated to let anybody use her knives, but at least Sherlock could be trusted with them.

"Jesus, Holmes," Sally broke in, shooting the pair of them a disgusted glare. "You don't borrow knives. What kind of shit chef are you, anyway?"

"At least he doesn't have a palette that's rammed up a cow's backside," Molly said, shaping a new quenelle with an expert hand. She lifted an eyebrow at Sally, then neatly placed the quenelle onto one of the toast points she was prepping.

John snorted. Sally sputtered and returned to her consomme, banging the pot loudly as she set it on the counter.

Catching sight of the clock, Molly smothered a curse and stopped paying attention to her peers as she worked quickly to finish her prep before Chef Lestrade came back to check their progress. Sherlock nudged her out of the way with his hip just as she was checking over her tray and started to sprinkle something aromatic over her canapes that distinctly did not smell of dill.

"Sherlock!" she hissed. "What is that? That's not in the recipe!"

He leaned down to whisper back, lips brushing her skin. "Trust me." And, ever so briefly, he pressed a kiss to the apex of her cheekbone, nearly at her temple. Molly froze, not entirely sure it had been intentional.

When she shook herself back to reality, Sherlock was wiping off her chef's knife. He winked at her as he slipped it back into her knife case, before turning to wipe down the counter.

Molly sighed and set about clearing down her own station.

…

"Service tonight. You ready?"

Molly jumped at the unexpected voice, nearly dropping her cigarette. She'd been so wrapped up in her thoughts that she hadn't heard the service door open.

Sherlock stopped a few feet from her, lighting up his own fag and taking a long drag from it. "You'll be fine."

"Why did you do that?" Molly said, stubbing out her butt before tossing it in the bin. "Chef really liked the gremolata on the canapes. You should have let me tell him it was your idea."

Sherlock flashed his teeth at her. "Proving a point," he said. "Lestrade never complains when anybody else alters a recipe."

That pulled an incredulous laugh out of her, the humor cutting through her nerves over their impending first service. "Chef only complains when you set things on fire."

Sherlock was well known at the cookery school for his habit of taking a torch to his less successful gastronomic experiments.

"'Charred' does not mean 'burnt to fuck', Holmes," they both recited, then descended into chuckles.

Sherlock fished out his phone, typing out a text with one hand while he finished his cigarette. Molly leaned against the brick wall, fiddling with her lighter and silently talking herself out of a second fag.

"About time," Sherlock said, tossing his butt and pocketing his phone. "Come on then, Hooper."

Despite the anxiety twisting her guts, when the first order came in, Molly found that she settled easily into the chaos. She would have even dared to say that she was enjoying it when disaster struck.

Even looking back on it, it was a bit of a blur. All Molly really knew is that she had stepped back to check the oven, but was bumped forward, knocking a pan filled with hot oil over her hand and a good portion of her forearm. Pain splintered through her, so sharp she couldn't do more than gasp.

Sherlock must have teleported across the kitchen, he was at her side so quickly. "Move," he snarled at Anderson, shoving the other man out of the way to wrap one hand around Molly's elbow. "Come on," he said briskly but gently, placing his other hand on her shoulder to usher her forward. "Sink. Come on."

"Hey!" Anderson said.

"Fetch a bowl, Anderson" Sherlock said acidly. "If you think you can manage to be even that useful."

Molly gasped as Sherlock put her burned hand under a stream of cool water. "I didn't hear him say he was behind," she said, biting back a whimper.

The hand on her shoulder rubbed up and down almost absently. "He didn't," Sherlock growled. "Useless sack of-" He broke off as Anderson returned with a large stainless steel bowl. "Yes, thank you Anderson. Now why don't you fuck off to the morgue. At least you can't kill anyone there."

"All right!" Chef Lestrade broke in before Anderson could retort. "Anderson, back on your station. Watson, take over for Hooper. Molly, do you need to go to A&E?"

She hissed in a breath as she submerged her hand and arm into the bowl Anderson had fetched, which Sherlock had filled with water. "No, I'm okay."

"Yes, she does," Sherlock insisted, overriding her protests. "I'll take her, Lestrade."

Chef gave Sherlock a long suffering look, but he looked at Molly and held his tongue.

"John," Molly called out suddenly. "There's a mid-well filet in the oven that needs to come out. The one on the stove is meant to be medium."

"Heard, Molls," John said, scooting over to her station and opening the oven.

Molly relaxed, convinced that her station was in good hands, and let Sherlock wrap her arm in a temporary bandage. He ushered her out and into a taxi after a quick detour to grab their things. Molly was grateful for the chance to sit down, as her head had started spinning.

Sherlock was deathly silent in the cab, mouth pressed into a thin line. His eyes kept darting to her bandaged hand, and by the time they reached the hospital, he was outright glowering.

"I'm going to murder Anderson," he muttered darkly as they settled into the waiting room. "And turn him into sausage."

"I don't think health and safety will think much of that," Molly said, rolling her head to look at him.

As she'd hoped, he finally cracked a smile. "How's your hand?"

"Hurts. That's a good thing, isn't it?" she said, trying to be positive. Of course, it had to be her dominant hand that had been injured.

"You'll be fine," Sherlock said, sounding more confident than either of them felt.

He took her uninjured hand in his, running his thumb over the ends of her fingers. The casual touch ignited a heat low in her belly which Molly tried to ignore, firmly reminding herself that this was Sherlock Holmes, who was most definitely not interested in her like that.

"You'll be working at my restaurant by the end of the year," he added. "Just like we planned."

Molly blinked. Then furrowed her brow and blinked again. "Sorry, what? You have a restaurant?"

Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes. "Well, it's Uncle Rudy's really, but it will be mine eventually. Would've gone to Mycroft, but he can't be bothered to _cook_. And he's well set up as a food critic now."

"The Iceman?" Molly sputtered, finally putting that together. " _That's_ your brother?"

Sherlock sighed and nodded almost reluctantly. He ran his hand over his curls, fluffing them up. "I, ah, forgot to ask you about the restaurant, didn't I?"

Molly pressed her lips together to hide a smile. "A bit, yeah."

His fingers tightened around hers. "I thought we could run it together."

"I'd like that," Molly said. "Hooper and Holmes. We make a good pair."

A nurse called Molly's name, and she flashed one last smile at Sherlock before heading off to the exam room.

"Holmes and Holmes," Sherlock said to himself, watching her go with warm eyes. "If I have anything to say about it."

**Author's Note:**

> Man, I just realized I missed an opportunity for a 'not my division' crack from Chef Lestrade. Oh well, maybe next time.


End file.
